Borderlands: Cat-trap
by iammemyself
Summary: Claptrap has some special, special friends.


**Borderlands: Cat-trap**

**By Indiana**

**Synopsis: Claptrap has some ****_special, special_**** friends. With credit to hugsforvillains of Tumblr.**

* * *

Claptrap had, at some point in time, acquired a great deal of kittens.

… or perhaps he only had two or three (or maybe four), and it simply _seemed_ as though he had a great deal of them. The furry little things seemed to be _everywhere_. When Claptrap was around, you were guaranteed to find a kitten someplace you didn't want one. Or, at least, a great deal of cat hair. And pee. There was a lot of that too.

Yes, those kittens seemed to think Claptrap was some sort of metallic and very thoughtlessly shaped cat tree. Not that he made any indication he cared. No, Claptrap was apparently quite content to stand there with his arms out, letting the cats crawl all over him like some sort of massive, noisy caterpillars. The upside was that when he was talking, he was talking mostly to the cats. The downside was that he didn't see proceeding with life as usual covered in cats as a problem. Whenever somebody brought it up, his go-to response was, "But they're so _cuuuuuute_!", which he said whilst holding out a squirming cat, following it up with, "C'mon, pet him!"

Well, the goal of getting rid of them was just a lost cause when there was a double handful of soft and tiny kitty in front of one's face.

There was honestly no getting away from those cats. They were underfoot, over-foot, and on-top-of-lap. Claptrap, having no grasp of any kind of boundaries himself, had obviously not attempted to curb their behaviour in any way whatsoever. "Claptrap," asked Moxxi rhetorically, removing a kitten from the beer pitcher she had found it in, "is this yours?"

"Captain Sexyboy!" crowed Claptrap, throwing his arms in the air whilst simultaneously not moving to accept the cat. "I have been looking _all over_ for you!"

"You named your _cat_ Captain Sexyboy?" Moxxi asked, squinting into the pitcher, taking note of the voluminous collection of cat hair, and then electing to pour the draft into it anyway.

"Well, _duh_," Claptrap said, ignoring the animal as it jumped off the bar and onto the counter holding the moderately impressive collection of mismatched glasses and tumblers. "Look at how _sexy_ he is! He's gonna have _so_ many kids when he grows up."

All Moxxi saw was a cat enthusiastically making a mess of her clean(ish) glasses, but she obviously didn't know anything, as Captain Sexyboy was indeed very handsome.

Eventually (to everyone's immense relief) the cats gradually tagged along with Claptrap less and less. Which meant (to everyone's immense chagrin) that Claptrap went back to talking to _them_ instead of the cats. And that, if you didn't know, is one of the most unacceptable forms of torture listed in the Geneva Convention, right up there with waterboarding and sensory deprivation. The latter, of course, being far preferable to whatever noise Claptrap happened to be making on any given day.

At some point he had acquired a very deep gouge in his chassis (which had conveniently managed not to sever anything important (if there was indeed anything important in there to sever)), but nobody knew where he'd gotten it from or when. Not because he hadn't told them all several times each, but because nobody cared. Until Hammerlock, damn his insatiable curiosity about the beasts of Pandora, actually _did_ ask him about it. Everyone in their vicinity knew that was a terrible, terrible mistake and immediately chugged whatever drink they had in front of them in the hopes of ushering in the blanks of memory infallibly produced by excessive amounts of alcohol.

"It's those _cats_," Claptrap lamented unnecessarily loudly, waving one hand over what he thought was a drink but what was actually a cup of whatever was dripping out from under the dishwasher. "They just _do not_ understand they're _too big_ to climb on me!"

"Oh, my dear boy," Hammerlock said, too polite to withhold a response even though he really should have at least _tried_, "they _understand_. But if you thought they would _care_, well, that's where you're gravely mistaken."

"They just are _not_ good listeners!" continued Claptrap ironically.

"I see," said Hammerlock, wishing fervently he had not started this conversation. This wish followed him for the rest of the day. Mostly because _Claptrap_ followed him for the rest of the day.

Claptrap continued telling outrageous stories about the cats, from things such as, "They keep thinking I'm some kinda _toy!_ Who would think _that_, right?" to, "One 'a them ruined Brick's garden, but you guys'll keep that to yourselves, right?" and concluding with, "_They ran off into the desert to live their lives without meeee!"_ This last one was accompanied by hysterical sobbing, which might have garnered him more sympathy if he hadn't done the same thing the day before when someone changed the song on the jukebox before his had ended.

"Moxxi!" Claptrap hollered as he entered the bar one afternoon, causing several patrons to scramble for the exit complete with chair-tossing, drink-spilling, and table-overturning. At least one of them was skipping out on his bill, for which he would probably be catching a bullet in the head for. "The _things_ I have seen today!"

Moxxi rolled her eyes and, because she was out of dishwasher juice, provided him with the sludge that was coming out of the bottom of the sink. What she gave him turned out not to matter, because as soon as he got up on the barstool he waved his hand dramatically and it flung the foul mixture across the bar, which of course hit some poor bastard in the face. Unfortunately, he was far bigger and stronger than Claptrap. Fortunately, he had fallen fast asleep in a puddle of his lite beer some time ago. That's what happens when your bartender doesn't cut people off.

"I couldn't believe my eye!" Claptrap shouted to no one in particular. "They _ate_ him!"

"What?" asked the man next to him, merely because he was drunk enough he couldn't shut up. Claptrap immediately turned to face him.

"Phantom of the Opera!" he explained, leaning over far enough a few people began to hope he'd fall off the barstool. It wouldn't stop him talking, but it would be funny. "They just tore inta him! Ripped him apart like he was an imitation condom! It was… it was… well, it was pretty cool, actually. I was _gonna _say I was horrified, and I_ was_, while it was happening, but now I'm thinkin' about it… yeah! It was pretty lit!"

"You named – you know the Phantom of the Opera had a _name_, right?" the man asked in exasperation, as he happened to be a massive theatre snob and had memorised everything about every _Phantom_ production that had ever been made. And if you thought there were a lot where _you_ come from, well, you haven't seen _Phantom_ performed solely with live skags, have you?

"Of _course_ I do!" Claptrap somehow snorted, because he, too, happened to be a massive theatre snob who had memorised everything about every _Phantom_ production that had ever been made, including the one that was performed solely with live skags. "I just liked the name Phantom of the Opera better!"

If Claptrap had been any other person, the man would have smashed his glass over Claptrap's head and left. Since that would have absolutely no effect, he smashed it over the head of the person on his other side instead. That was how Claptrap started his eighty-ninth bar fight, despite not actually fighting anybody. That got Claptrap kicked out of Moxxi's for the hundred and seventy-fourth time, despite his protests that he'd done nothing wrong. Surprisingly, he hadn't, but that had never mattered before and so it absolutely wouldn't now nor any other time in the future.

As they often did, a bandit spotted Claptrap rolling obliviously along through the dust by himself. And again, as they often did, he decided now was a good time to put the robot out of his misery. Wait, no. To put everyone _else_ out of _their _misery. From having to put up with him. Because he's – yes. Moving on.

The bandit sauntered across the dirt, both hands holding a shotgun that was mostly built out of other, discarded, crappier shotguns, and thought about what he might like to do with Claptrap once he'd caught up with him. The bandit was both too stupid and too ignorant (mostly ignorant) to know quite _why_ the little robot reacted to even extremely unpleasant experiences such as being set on fire and electrocuted with exuberant good cheer, but he didn't really _need_ to know. All he needed to know was that it was pretty funny. He was cool with just knowing that.

As he ambled along he pondered just how he would do it. He could always shoot him, of course, but then there was the risk that he would ruin something important and then Claptrap would die, and that wouldn't be worth his time. He could try demanding the robot turn himself off, which he would probably agree to do, but _then_ the bandit would have to drag what looked to be a _very_ heavy robot back to camp, and that just didn't sound like fun. He decided that his best bet would be simply to _ask_ him to come along. From what he'd heard, the stupid thing would probably do it, too. And he'd heard right, unfortunately.

"Hello, Claptrap," the bandit announced, in a voice that he probably thought sounded friendly and welcoming, but really sounded like that obnoxious stranger who opens their screen door on Halloween and thinks it's clever to hand out boxes containing about eight sour raisins or pint-sized toothbrushes with bristles that make it feel like you're sucking on a soggy, fuzzy hairbrush. "Where are you headed?"

"Good day, gentle sir!" returned Claptrap, who had never been trick-or-treating and so had no idea what voice the bandit was using. "I'm searching for my friend! He's around here somewhere, but you know how friends are. Always running off on you!"

The bandit stifled a laugh and a gleeful smile. Or at least, he thought he did. He actually looked mildly like he had been holding his breath for a very long time in a strange attempt to impress someone. A woman, probably. Or perhaps a man. Or possibly himself in the mirror. "Friends?" the bandit said, in a way that conjured up visions of screaming doormats and someone sitting in a rocking chair on their porch breathing very slowly into a Darth Vader mask in the minds of everyone within a one-hundred kilometre radius, excluding Claptrap. "Why, what a coincidence! I got _lots_ of friends back where _I'm_ going!"

"Really?" Claptrap asked, jumping and spinning around about ninety degrees which, if you didn't know, is very impressive for a robot that clumsy. "_Lots_ of friends, you say?"

"Oh yes," the bandit nodded. "If _lots_ were a number, that's how many friends I'd have waiting!"

"Ooh!" Claptrap rubbed his flat little hands together, which produced the exact noise a violin makes when someone who has never played it before believes they are in fact in the beginnings of the next great concerto. "Hey, if we're all getting our friends together, mind if I bring _my_ friend along? It won't take long! He'll be here any minute!"

"Of course," the bandit replied, because he did not for one second believe _Claptrap_ had a single friend in all the universe. Even rust seemed to be avoiding him, somehow. Even the organic process of oxidising metal couldn't stand Claptrap! The bandit thought he was clever for knowing this information, which he was, but only because of the company he was with at the moment. The company in question raised himself as high as possible, cupped his hands around the mouth he didn't have, and hollered so loudly he disturbed a nest of rakks about two hundred kilometres away, "_Mrs Fluffers!_"

Yeah. The friend _definitely_ did not exist.

That was when the eclipse happened.

The reason I didn't tell you there was an impending eclipse was because it didn't make it into the weather forecast. It hadn't been predicted by any satellites, or meteorologists, and even the prerequisite crazy-haired man with the apocalypse sign was pretty sure the end of the world wasn't nigh until at least next week. And that was because it wasn't really an eclipse.

The bandit looked toward the shadow blocking out the sun, and then he looked up. And up. And up farther. So far that his jaw kind of fell open without his permission. He honestly wished that the predicted fire and brimstone would happen _right now_, or at least that there really _had _been an unexpected eclipse, because Claptrap _did_ have a friend. The very _worst_ kind of friend, in fact.

This _friend_ was some massive, unholy _beast_. It was covered head to whip-like tail in mangy orange fur, sported ears that resembled Swiss cheese, had four-foot fangs bordered by an expansive tangle of eight-foot whiskers, and eyes that were definitely being used by the soul of some hellspawn to scare the everloving shit out of him.

It worked. Both literally and figuratively.

Most bandits, this one included, prided themselves on being tough-as-nails badasses that would go up against a Vault Hunter with their bare hands. A high percentage of them would even actually do that. So when I tell you that _this_ beast was terrifying enough to make this man turn around, hitch up his freshly soiled pants, and run screaming back to the hive of scum and villainy from whence he came, you know it was pretty darn scary.

"Oh, Mrs Fluffers," lamented Claptrap, looking sadly at the tire tracks he'd made in the dirt, "I just don't understand it! Every time I bring someone to meet you, they piss themselves and run away! They don't even _try _to get to know you. Rude!"

Mrs Fluffers purred quietly, which only caused one or two minor rockslides. Claptrap petted an area on his leg approximately the size of the cat's toe and held his other hand up thoughtfully beneath his eye. He had a surprisingly wide range of facial expressions given that he didn't have a face. "Well," he said finally, straightening, "I guess _he's_ just gonna have to come to _your_ place!"

Mrs Fluffers licked his shoulder, which would make it a good time to mention said shoulder was matted down with a thick layer of some dark, hardened substance. Blood. It was blood.

"_Mrs Fluffers_!" Claptrap shouted up in the direction of the cat's very distant ear. "Invite him over already, willya!?"

Mrs Fluffers gave a meow that would have only been about seventy-five decibels if anyone had been measuring (which no one was) and looked over in the direction of the fleeing bandit with mild interest. He didn't care very much for the bandit, but he _was_ holding something that glinted temptingly in the blazing sun…

"_Finally_," groused Claptrap as the cat ambled to his feet and collected the bandit, who had not even managed to run the length of the animal. Mrs Fluffers contained the hapless idiot inside of his teeth with remarkable gentility and turned to face his beloved master again.

"Hooray!" Claptrap shouted, jumping up and down with his arms in the air. He actually had impressive height for someone with a suspension that old. "Oh _boy_! Mrs Fluffers, try an' take care of him until we get back, huh? You always wreck 'em before Jerry gets to meet 'em."

"_Who's Jerry_?" sobbed the bandit, whose bladder tried and failed to empty itself a second time. Claptrap spun around and continued rolling forward. But backward. Forward but backward. Like his life as a whole.

"Oh, you'll like Jerry," Claptrap said enthusiastically. "He _loves_ playing. But he's shy! So we gotta bring him people to play with! Or we _would_," and the robot paused here to fold his arms indignantly, "if Mrs Fluffers here didn't hog all the _friends_."

"_I don't want to play with Jerry!_"

"Oh, you," scoffed Claptrap, waving one hand in airy dismissal, "you haven't even _met_ him yet! You _really_ should get to meet people before you write 'em off, y'know." And he hopped in an attempt to spin himself front-facing again, which he was very successful at doing. What he was _also_ very successful at doing was falling down. "Gingersnaps!" he yelled into the dirt, because he was only allowed to use K-rated profanity (and even that was pushing it), and Mrs Fluffers immediately dropped the bandit, to his immense relief. That was, until about five seconds later when he hit the ground and broke his leg in at _least_ three places. At least.

He was too busy screaming and staring with comically bulging eyes at the brand-new configuration his leg was now in to look over and see that Mrs Fluffers had 'helped' Claptrap by batting at his chassis as though he were some tiny prey to be joyfully toyed with. "Now, now," Claptrap was saying (which the bandit also wasn't listening to, since he was screaming so loudly). "We have _talked_ about this, young man!"

Mrs Fluffers proceeded to drag his tongue, the size of which rivalled a full-sized van, up Claptrap's chassis so hard it actually stood him back up again. It also removed an impressively-sized stripe of years-old dirt, which revealed that Claptrap had once been quite a different, but still obnoxious, shade of yellow. "Thanks bunches!" Claptrap said. "Now, you wanna help our – oh, crap. You broke him! It's gonna be _real_ hard for Jerry to play with him _now_."

The cat retrieved the sobbing bandit and deposited him in front of Claptrap, who smacked himself in the eye with the palm of his hand solely because he didn't have a forehead to smack. "No! _I_ don't want him! He's for _Jerry!_"

Mrs Fluffers looked expectantly down at Claptrap, bony tail sweeping the dirt in such great swaths he was probably unburying some long-forgotten skeletons. Claptrap sighed and turned around.

"Come on," he said, rolling onward. "I don't wanna hang out _here_ all day. There's _scary monsters_ around, y'know?"

Mrs Fluffers purred.

* * *

**Author's note**

**Hugsforvillains of Tumblr suggested that the cats of Pandora grow up to be vicious beasts. Usually I just said cats didn't exist on Pandora anymore. **

**One of the people I know from work came up with the name Captain Sexyboy. For himself. He calls himself that.**


End file.
